


Make Me Alive

by FlavorofKylo



Category: Adam Driver - Fandom, Marriage Story - Fandom, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Co-workers, Daddy Charlie Barber, F/M, Mild Daddy Kink, New Year's Eve, New York City, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Divorce, Praise Kink, Romance, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Yes he likes to be called Daddy lol, single father Charlie Barber, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28304208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlavorofKylo/pseuds/FlavorofKylo
Summary: Reader works as a script consultant with Charlie on his new play.  On New Year's Eve, you both find yourself with no plans."Somebody need me too muchSomebody know me too wellSomebody pull me up shortAnd put me through hellAnd give me supportFor being aliveMake me aliveMake me alive"
Relationships: Charlie Barber/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	Make Me Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofreylo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofreylo/gifts).



> LadyofReylo thank you for being such a great friend and alpha reader. You inspire me every day. :) 
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, may 2021 bring you better things.
> 
> Thank you to AliCat114 for her beta and moodie skills!

You sit several seats away, to the left of Charlie, watching him from a distance as always. You’re not sure if he ever notices you watching, but it doesn’t feel like it. He’s always so focused, so intent when he’s working.

But you can’t stop staring at his striking profile, the strong, aquiline nose that dominates his face. It’s a ruthless nose—sharp and imperious, the nose of a warrior, you think, or an emperor. And his mouth. It’s almost ridiculous how full and plush his lips are, making it impossible for you not to think about how they would feel caressing your own, not to mention other places on your body. His eyes? Well, no doubt, you could write a poem about the amber depths of his eyes, with green flecks that showed up in the right light. _Ode to Charlie's Eyes._ Anytime he lets that honeyed gaze fall on you directly, it was nothing but sheer luck if you didn’t end up a puddle on the floor.

Yep, it’s definitely safe to say that have a crush on your boss. Maybe it’s not that bad. This is a temporary gig for you, as a script consultant--a way to make a little extra money while supporting the arts, and with an avante-garde theater, no less. You respect the hell out of Charlie—his work ethic, his discipline, his talent. His refusal to cast his artistic vision away in favor of something more commercial.

  
As it happens, you'd like to show his body some respect as well. His whole body. Every inch of him.

The handful of actors and crew still milling about finally decide which bar to go to. Your attention is diverted from Charlie when you hear one of them call his name, and he looks up—finally—from his phone.

  
“You coming? We’re gonna hit Monkey Bar. Last drink before the big night.”

  
He scrunches his nose. “Nah, I don’t think so. Go without me.”

  
“You sure?” Gina presses. She's an attractive blonde who can’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three.

  
“Yeah. Just not in the mood,” he shrugs. “Have fun, guys. Happy New Year!”

  
As the group shuffles out, calls of “See you next year,” and bursts of laughter bounce through the room. Suddenly, Charlie turns to look at you, and your breath hitches. Up til that moment, you were’nt even sure he was aware of your presence.

  
He gives you an amused grin and speaks your name. You could listen to him say it that way, in his melodious baritone ,over and over, on an endless loop.

  
“Aren’t you going?”

  
“Nah,” you say. “I’m gonna head home.”

  
He nods, and pockets his phone with a sigh.

  
“Yeah, me too. I sure as hell didn’t see the year ending like this.”

  
You’re confused for a moment. He has a successful play on Broadway that’s getting rave reviews.

  
“Is this a bad way to end the year?” you ask, wide-eyed.

  
He looks momentarily surprised and then chuckles. “Oh, not this,” he explains, one big hand waving in a vague circle. “ I was supposed to fly back to L.A. tomorrow to see my kid. I’d get to have him New Year’s Eve, since his mother goes out anyway. So he and I would spend New Year’s Day together. But with this storm moving in, they’re already starting to cancel flights.”

  
“I’m sorry,” you say. “That really bites.”

  
“Yeah. Bites the big one, as my son would say.” He rolls his eyes and laughs softly. “He’s at that age, you know. What about you? Do you have any kids?”

  
“No,” you say softly. “My ex and I discussed it at the beginning of our marriage, but then, he… just didn’t want to. It definitely played a role in the downfall of our marriage.”

  
Charlie’s throat bobs, his eyes falling on your lips for an instant. “How long since it ended?”

  
You tilt your head, counting. “About two and a half years,” you say, surprised to realize it had been that long.

  
He gives you a sweet smile and raises his eyebrows. “Well, you clearly survived divorce. So I guess I have a shot, too.”

  
“Definitely,” you agree.

  
He gets to his feet. “Shall we?”

The two of you leave the theatre and walk across 48th Street towards Seventh Avenue. Charlie talks more about his kid, Henry. His voice is warm as he recounts a story about Henry’s discovery that reading could actually be fun.

  
“He’s a smart kid though. Off the charts in math.”

  
You chuckle. “Not me. My math scores were abysmal. Reading was where I shone.”

  
His eyes twinkle at you. “Same here.” He stops suddenly, and one of his large hands lands on your shoulder in a casual gesture.

  
“Hey—I could go for a coffee. Maybe _Buche de Noel_. Would you want to?”

  
You stare up at him in surprise. Charlie Barber is asking you to….okay, calm down. It’s just coffee. It’s not a date.

  
But either way, there’s no way in hell you would say no.

  
“Sure, let’s do it,” you nod. “What was that other thing you said? Boosh….?"

  
He chuckles. “ _Buche de Noel._ It’s a traditional Christmas dessert in France. You’ll see.”

  
He hails a cab almost instantly, and you marvel at the power of Charlie Barber.

A short time later, you’re sitting across from each other in a cozy little café. You’ve ordered your coffees, and the _Buche de Noel_ that Charlie can’t shut up about. You’re delighted to discover that it’s actually a chocolate cake, decorated to look like a yule log. Charlie watches you, his eyes answering the pleasure on your face as you take your first bite.

  
“This is fabulous,” you sigh.

  
He nods. “I fell in love with it the first time I went to Paris with Nicole. Henry was little.” A shadow of grief crosses his face for a moment, but he shakes it off and smiles again. “Those were good times.”

  
You nod, knowing exactly what it’s like.

  
“Yeah. Even after everything has fallen apart, those good moments linger. It’s hard to accept at first, when you’re still angry. And then eventually, when you get past it, you realize how precious those memories are.”

  
He stares at you for a long moment, as if he can see beyond the fleshly exterior into your soul.

  
“That’s true” he murmurs. “I guess I haven’t let go of all the anger yet.” Charlies sips his coffee thoughtfully. “The divorce was just finalized today. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  
You settle back in your seat, taking him in. “Yeah, well. The end of the year. One door closes, another opens. Isn’t that what they say?”

  
He nods, lips tugging into a smile. “That is indeed what they say.”

  
“Honestly, though. I don’t really mind it that much. Sometimes it’s okay like this, quiet. But then other times, I need someone to just…. _be_ there.”

  
Charlie chuckles and looks into the middle distance. He looks so sad, wistful, and for a moment, you think he might cry.

“Somebody hold me too close,” he sings softly. “Somebody hurt me too deep...somebody sit in my chair and ruin my sleep and make me aware...of being alive." 

  
You smile at him, moved. “What’s that from?”

  
“It’s Sondheim. Play called The Company.” He nods and takes another bite of the cake. “Don’t let me eat the rest of this,” he grins.

  
You laugh and take another forkful.

  
“Tell me about you,” Charlie says, warm eyes locking with yours.

  
You tell him about your job as librarian, and your writing. He knows about your stories, of course--it was the reason you were hired for the job-- but he gets excited when you mention that you also write poetry. Turns out he loves Dickinson and Dylan Thomas, too. He tells you he’s he's writing a new play himself, but he won’t share what it’s about yet.

  
“I don’t want to end up blocking myself. This is a very new thing for me. Much scarier than directing. I’m slightly terrified,” he confides.

  
“I get it. I’m the same way when I write.”

  
“Maybe you’ll look it over when I finish a draft,” he offers. “Give me some con crit.”

  
“I’d love to,” you smile, “if you trust me that much.”

The two of you walk to the subway together and say good night. He’s going downtown, to Brooklyn; you’re heading uptown to Queens.

  
“This was really nice,” he says. “Thank you.”

  
“Thank you for introducing me to my first _Buche de_ _Noel._ I never met a chocolate cake I didn’t like.”

  
He laughs softly, his eyes ighting up.

  
“You’re funny,” he says. Charlie leans in and for a couple seconds, you’re sure he’s about to kiss you…but then he pulls away.

  
“Alright then,” he says. “I’ll see ya.”

  
“Yeah,” you say, trying not to show your disappointment.

  
“Hey,” he calls as you start to descend to the platform. “You have my number, right?”

  
You nod.

  
“Call me if you, uh…want to get a drink tomorrow.”

  
You smile. “Sure, Charlie. Night.”

  
He gives you a little wave and disappears on the staircase.

New Year’s Eve. 1:30 pm

The snowstorm turns out to be a little less spectacular than predicted. It's enough to slow things down, but the city keeps humming along. 

You sit on the couch with a mug of tea, staring dumbly at the tv. The Meg Ryan movie marathon is continuing and “You’ve Got Mail” is about to start. You sigh and glance at your phone. Maybe you should call him. Or just a text. It couldn’t hurt, right? He said to call. You chew the inside of your cheek, nervous. Wondering if it was really a good idea, wondering what might happen if—

  
Your phone pings. When you grab for it, you can’t believe it’s really him. Snow or no snow, how is it possible that Charlie Barber isn't busy on New Year’s Eve? How could _he_ not have a date?

  
You read the text and bite your lip.

  
CB: Hi. Are you busy?

  
ME: Nope. Just sitting staring at the idiot box. What are you up to?

CB: Thinking about the city. Have dinner with me?

Shit. Somehow, having a drink became having dinner.

Going out on New Year’s Eve in New York City can be both a privilege and a punishment. The places that were open always made a big deal of the evening; it was hard to get dinner anywhere without paying a jacked-up prix fixe. And those places were usually packed, anyway. Spending tons of money and situating yourself in the middle of a crowd were both things you would happily say no to, but in this case…

ME: Sure. What did you have in mind?

It's nearly 7:30 when you arrive at the entrance of Fig and Olive in the Meatpacking district. As you enter, you're a bit put-off by the swell of people hanging out by reception. You sigh and glance around, not seeing him. Then a warm hand lands on your shoulder and you turn.

  
Charlie looks so handsome, dressed the way he usually does—dark button down and pressed jeans. His hair is perfect, and you wonder how his hair always looks so goddamn perfect. When he smiles, showing his adorably crooked canines, you melt. He leans over to kiss you on the cheek.

"You look very pretty," he murmurs, and you flush at his praise. “Hungry?” he whispers in your ear, sending a small shiver down your spine.

  
"Definitely," you nod. In more ways than one.

  
“I was afraid you’d be busy,” he admits with a smirk.

  
“I could have been. You got lucky.”

"Thanks for coming out, in the snow and all."

"Well...I didn't want to pass up a free dinner," you quip. "And tonight, of all nights."

Charlie's eyes crinkle. 

  
He doesn’t need to know that you had nothing else planned for the night. And even if you did, there was a pretty good chance you’d drop it for the chance to spend the evening with him. No, he definitely doesn’t need to know that.

  
When you’re seated, Charlie asks if you’d like to split a bottle. You agree on Champagne (it’s New Year’s Eve, after all) and he orders a bottle of Roederer. The waiter pops it open and the two of you chuckle and share first sips. He leans in to kiss you right after the waiter leaves. It's a sweet first kiss, a little shy, and he tastes of champagne. Your heart soars. 

He enjoys making you laugh during dinner. You find you can just be yourself with Charlie. It's hard to remember the last time you felt that way. 

  
It’s a little after ten pm when the waiter brings your check.

  
“Reseating for the last group,” he chuffs.

  
Charlie’s eyes meet yours again and he raises his eyebrows. You nod, knowing exactly what he's thinking. Once he pays the bill, the two of you are out of there.

  
Outside the restaurant, he presses his lips to your ear for a moment and you nearly swoon. "How do you feel about spending the night in Brooklyn?"

"I feel pretty good about it," you answer. 

Job ethics be damned.

Taking a cab all the way to Brooklyn is an extravagance, but who are you to complain? Especially when Charlie tugs you close and kisses you in a way that lights up your whole body. You’re incandescent, glowing with his warmth as his tongue sweeps over yours, tasting you. His free hand finds its way to your thigh and squeezes, making you clench inside. 

“This night is turning out much better than I expected,” he hums in your ear, and you nod. You reach over to cup his crotch, squeezing him in return and he groans softly. You can’t wait to be in his bed.

The trip back to Brooklyn is surprisingly fast, thanks to the hour. As you cross the Brooklyn Bridge, the city lights fly by you, sparkling off the East River in a brilliant display. One of your hands is swallowed up by Charlie’s much larger one, warm and protected. 

You don’t want him to ever let go. 

You stand at his door as he fumbles for the key, your heart pounding. And then you’re inside and upstairs at his bedroom, stopping only to use the bathroom. He’s already told you there’s an extra toothbrush you can use, and you have the requisite conversation about safe sex. He tells you he’s clean and so are you (you’ve been all but celibate since the end of your marriage) but you have an implant. 

  
You pad down the hallway and he meets you in the doorway, dipping down for another kiss while his hands thread through your hair. 

  
“I’ve thought about this for awhile,” he says, unbuttoning your blouse with trembling hands. In the dim light, his eyes look nearly black with need. You reach up to his cheek gently, just to make sure he’s real: this beautiful, gentle, incredible man—and he wants _you_. 

  
“I had no idea,” you whisper, and then his mouth is on your neck. “Oh, _Charlie.”_

  
“Lie down for me, kitten.” His voice is thick with want, and a little shudder goes through you at the endearment. He licks his lips and begins to unbutton his own shirt.  
Naked, you stretch out on the soft, cool sheets and start to pull them up. 

  
“Wait,” he says, and you go still. “Let me look at you for a minute.”

  
You lie there, doing your best not to be self-conscious. He just stares, lips parted, as he removes his shirt and then his belt. 

“You’re so lovely," he says. You blush and shy away but he moves closer and grabs your chin. “Look at me.” When you meet his eyes, he says your name in that voice like molten chocolate. “Lovely,” he repeats. 

  
When Charlie yanks his boxers down, you try not to gasp. You figured he would be large, considering the size of the man, but you weren’t expecting this. He chuckles a bit at your expression. 

  
“It’s been awhile,” you remind him.

  
“I know. We’ll take it slow. I'm gonna take good care of you, Kitten.” 

  
You nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

  
Charlie freezes and his mouth drops open. “What….did you say?”

  
You bite your lip. “I won’t call you that, if you don’t like it.”

  
He takes a deep breath and walks toward you. “I do….fuck, I like it.” He crouches on the bed and crawls over you. “Say it again.”

  
“Yes, Daddy,” you repeat. Charlie groans and buries his nose in your neck. His lips roam sloppily and he sucks a bruise into you as you sigh beneath him. “Yes...Mark me, please.” 

  
He nips at your throat. “That’s so hot. _Fuck._ Can’t wait to see how you taste.”

  
Charlie lowers himself between your spread legs, his hands resting on both hips to hold you still and he dives in. You throw your head back as he licks a single stripe up alongside your clit but not touching, repeating the move on the other side. 

  
“God, you’re sweet. I knew you’d be sweet,” he murmurs. He teases you, tracing your labia with his tongue while you squirm.

  
“Please,” you beg. He knows what you want, of course. 

  
“Please what?”

  
“Please, Daddy.”

  
He smirks at you and resumes lapping, sliding one thick finger inside you. When he finally sucks your clit into his mouth you cry out, as the pressure in your core builds quickly. You look down to meet his dark eyes as he brings you closer and closer to the brink. You’re almost there, you’re right there, and then he….stops. 

  
“Fuck. What the _fuck_ , Charlie?”

He slides another finger inside you and watches you with a grin. “You have to ask _nicely,_ ” he says. 

  
You sigh and close your eyes for a moment. “Please, may I come….Daddy?”

  
“Good girl.” And then he brings your over the edge, crashing down like heavy waves on a beach, the intensity rocketing you into another galaxy.

  
Charlie holds you while you drift back down, sharing the taste of you on his lips. 

  
“That was amazing,” you murmur.

  
“I'm not done with you yet," he murmurs, lining his cock up at your lips. He waits. “Are you ready, Kitten?”

  
“Please. I need you inside me.” 

  
He pushes in slowly, groaning as the head of his cock breaches your entrance. _“Fuck,_ baby….god you're so wet..." 

  
You whimper at the stretch, the slight burn, but hold out because you know it will only get better. Charlie bottoms out and then he stills. 

  
“You okay?” he pants.

  
You nod, and he kisses you softly. 

  
“Yes. Please move.”

  
He starts to rock inside of you gently, at a slow pace that’s almost tortuous. As he picks up speed, praises spill from his lips about how _good_ you are, how _sweet._ He lifts one of your legs up, changing the angle, so he can go deeper and you whimper. 

  
“God, I love those little sounds you make. Let go.”

You do, and he pounds into you, reaching between you to find your clit. 

“Come for me again, Kitten. Lemme see how pretty you are when you come.”

  
“Charlie,” you cry, your voice breaking. He feels you squeeze him and follows right behind. The two of you lie wrapped in a tangle of arms and legs, sweaty and panting and so _right._

  
After awhile, you shift, and he cradles your head against his chest. “You need anything?” he asks. 

  
“Nope. I’ve got everything I need right here," you sigh blissfully just before he captures your lips again.

  
“Oh shit,” he says suddenly. “Did we miss it?” He glances at the bedside clock—it’s already after twelve.

  
“Yep…five past midnight. Oh well,” he chuckles.

  
“That's okay. I can’t think of a better way to spend New Year’s Eve,” you say. “Or New Year’s Day, for that matter.”

  
“Me neither. I wouldn't change a thing. You know what?"

"What?"

"I get the feeling this is the beginning of a _beautiful_ friendship."

  


fin  


**Author's Note:**

> "Being Alive." Stephen Sondheim, The Company, 1970.
> 
> The last line is borrowed from "Casablanca," one of the greatest romantic movies ever made.


End file.
